


you said goodbye, i said no way

by whataboutmycape



Series: time is finite my dear, love is not [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Project Freelancer, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whataboutmycape/pseuds/whataboutmycape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who the hell is this?” The soldier says, looking around at the others as if one of them knows the answer. Tucker bites his lip so hard it bleeds and tries not to cry. The words feel like a knife in his chest.<br/>“It’s- It’s me, it’s Tucker. Don’t you remember?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	you said goodbye, i said no way

**Author's Note:**

> so this is all papanorth on tumbler's fault. she said "time travel tuckington au!" and i said "oh fuck no" and then this happened.  
> the writing style of this one is a lot different than the first part, and tbh the first part can be read alone and left just like that if you so wish. that being said, this one probably won't make much sense if you don't read the first one before this. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy! sorry this got really long, oops.

It’s been five months since the Federal Army attacked, and they lost half of their team. Tucker grits his teeth in anger as he remembers it, remembers how useless he had been to save them. Caboose still doesn’t understand. He keeps talking about a rescue plan, as if there’s anything left to go back and rescue, and Tucker wants to make him understand, but he doesn’t want to crush his spirits.

The Reds barely fight with each other anymore. Simmons and Grif have become quiet shells of the people they used to be, and Tucker really can’t blame them. They lost their commander, and half of their fighting force. Tucker hates to see them like this. The Rebels try and understand, but it’s hard for them. They all had expectations for these red and blue soldiers, they’re all geared up and ready to fight a war, they taste victory in their mouths like the copper taste of blood, and they itch to make the Federal Republic _bleed._

They don’t understand. How could they? All that’s on their minds right now is war. Tucker understands them, but he doesn’t commiserate. He’s so fucking frustrated with everything. If it wasn’t for this damn civil war, Wash and Sarge and Donut and Lopez would still be alive and none of this would have happened. He never would have had to hear the words that he dreaded the most; that he still hears in his nightmares.

_Freckles, shake._

Tucker lays awake at night and grieves. He barely sleeps anymore, just thinks, his memories swarming around and around his head until he can feel them weighing down on his chest and it becomes difficult to breathe. He starts to go for walks around the base at night, when it’s quiet and the only people around are the sentries. Tucker spends time exploring the rooms, and he discovers all of the broken ancient alien equipment that the rebels have collected throughout the fight. He spends some of his nights in the training hall, taking out his emotions on the rice sack dummies they have hanging from the ceiling. It’s more training than he ever did back in Blood Gulch, and it makes his muscles sing.

Kimball tries to talk to him. She wants to give him space to grieve, but she also knows that him and the other SIM soldiers are the keys that she needs to win this war and she just wants to start fighting again already. Tucker feels helpless because he wants to help her, he really does, but he’s so tired of fighting. If he’s being honest, he just wants to go home, wherever home is now. He can figure that out later.

The sun is rising one day, and the rebel camp is under attack. Tucker grits his teeth and swears loudly as the message blares out over the comm system. His hand here is forced- there’s no way he can sit back while everyone else fights. Even if he doesn’t feel obligated to pick sides in this war, the rebels have given him house and home, have fed him and his comrades, so he feels indebted. He owes them this much.

Under the shield of dawn, Tucker straps his rifle to his back and equips his sword. He finds his way to the outskirts of the base camp, the front lines of the fight, and he throws himself into it in an effort to silence his head. For just a moment, Tucker is seeking silence, and he’s found a way to achieve it. The adrenaline of action is mind numbing, and Tucker becomes so focused on what his hands are doing- aim, shoot, fire, reload, restart- that he doesn’t notice the bullet until it’s embedded in his shoulder.

The impact knocks him off balance, and Tucker grits his teeth inside his helmet as he drops his rifle, right hand coming to squeeze his shoulder. The blood is slick and oozing, but it doesn’t feel like a fatal blow. He just needs to stem the bleeding, to get away from the fighting. He needs to find Grey, but he doesn’t know where to look- would she still be in Medical? Or is she out here, treating the wounded on the field? Tucker isn’t sure, and he doesn’t know if he can even make it all the way back to the base. Suddenly his head is swimming, and standing up again seems harder then it should be. He takes one step, and then other, and his vision is losing focus. Tucker takes a third step and feels like he’s falling off the edge of the world. He can still hear the echo of gunshots as he blacks out.

 

 

He wakes up laying on a cold metal ground. He still has his armor on, and he doesn’t feel dead. There’s a phantom ache in his upper arm, right over his scar, right over his _words_ , and Tucker can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. He can hear the echo of footsteps on the metal floor, reverberating through his head, and the sudden sense of urgency the sound gives him forces his body up and into a fighting stance. He looks around and realizes that he’s not alone in the room- in fact, he’s surrounded by a group of people in mismatched colored armor, and there’s a voice over the comm, saying something that Tucker doesn’t understand, because- because-

 _“Wash?”_ The sound is punched out of him, ripped from his throat, and Tucker is scrambling to unclasp his helmet and shove it off his head, rubs his eyes so hard he sees stars, because this has to be some sick trick of his equipment, there’s no _fucking way_ -

Tucker's visions clears again and he blinks, hard. His arm is burning just like it did that day in the cave, and Tucker’s heart is in his throat, because right there, standing in front of him, is the man in standard issue gray armor, pipelined with yellow.

The eyes turn from Tucker to the other soldier, who reaches up to pop the latch on his own helmet. He takes it off, and the breath catches in Tucker’s throat, because no there’s honestly no denying it. _That’s Wash._

Something is off, though, he knows, and as the blonde twists his face up in confusion, an eyebrow arched, Tucker’s stomach drops. He looks younger, not as worn down and scarred, and Tucker is afraid.

“Who the hell is this?” The blonde soldier, _Wash_ , says, looking around at the others as if one of them knows the answer. Tucker bites his lip so hard it bleeds and tries not to cry.

The words feel like a knife in his chest.

“It’s- It’s _me_ , it’s Tucker. Don’t you remember? Wash I thought-“ Tucker starts, his voice cracking on every third word. If anything, the look just turns more incredulous. Tucker snaps his mouth shut and drops his eyes to floor. The other soldiers start to talk, but Tucker can’t even hear them. His head is starting to pound again, and his throat feels like it’s closed off. Before he knows it, his knees give out, and then his lungs. For the second time in 24 hours, Tucker blacks out.

This time, he wakes up in Medical. They sit him on a bed and strip him of his armor, and Tucker forgets all about the bullet wound until the pressure is off of his shoulder and the blood starts to seep again, warm and sluggish down his arm. He looks up to the woman who says she’s the doctor on board the ship, and she tells him to lay back and relax so that she can treat him.

The pain of her removing the bullet is nothing compared to the burning pain in his chest and his upper arm. He swears he can feel the outline of the inked letters against his skin, burning a hole straight through his flesh. He wonders if the doctor can tell.

 

After he’s been patched up, Tucker is led down the halls and into an office. They won’t give him his armor back yet, they told him they’re patching it up for him, but really he just thinks they’re raiding it. Right now, though, there’s nothing he can do either way. He can only follow the directions he’s given and try and figure out what mess he’s gotten himself into this time.

The door closes behind him and leaves Tucker alone in the office with a middle aged man who is sitting behind a desk and enjoying a cup of coffee. The man uses his mug to gesture to the chair on the other side of his desk, and Tucker stiffly takes the seat, habitually rolling his shoulders back and then hissing when the motions tugs at his newly stitched skin. The man sitting across from him sighs.

“Son. Do you know who I am?” He asks, putting his coffee cup down on his desk. The question takes Tucker by surprise, and he shakes his head. Should he know this man? “I’m known as the Director of Project Freelancer. Does that ring any bells for you?”

Tucker sits up a little straighter at that. “But I thought-“ He starts to say, then stops himself. He thought the Director was dead, that Project Freelancer was abandoned years ago. He helped pull the corporation down himself. What the fuck is this guy talking about?

“Thought what, son?” The Director asks, leaning forward over his desk. Tucker just shakes his head, not wanting to say anything thing, and the man waits a moment before continuing. “Well son, I do think that we have found ourselves in quite the situation here. Simply put, I believe you have been caught up in some of or affairs without your consent or your knowledge. You see, the corporation I run here is one that is constantly evolving. Everyday, we are testing new equipment for the field. Sometimes they work like a charm, and other times… the results are not ideal.” The Director pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. Tucker stays quiet. “You see, we were running a field test for a time manipulator. In exact terms, we were testing the transport of objects throughout time, and I believe you were caught up in the magnetic pull of Agent Wyoming’s time distortion mechanic.”

Tucker sits up a little straighter and narrows his eyes. “I know that name… Wyoming was the prick who showed up back in Blood Gulch and got us all stuck in that shitty time loop. Is that what this is?”

“Son, I’m afraid you don’t seem to be understanding me. This isn’t a time loop, this is a whole other time _period_. By the sound of things, I’d say you just got pulled back in time. How far, I do not know. But this isn’t your time, anymore.” The Director says, putting his mug down again so he can fold his hands together in front of himself. “Now, this technology is still new to us. We need time to figure out how we brought you here so that we can now how to send you back. For now, there isn’t much that can you do with your shoulder like that, so just relax and let my men do the heavy work. Okay, son?” Tucker doesn’t say anything, he only nods. The Director sits back in his chair, then, and starts sifting through the datapad on his desk. Tucker takes it for the dismissal that it is and hauls ass out of the office.

 

Tucker’s head is spinning. He doesn’t know how any of this is even happening. If what he’s hearing is true, then that means he’s back in the past, before all of the Project Freelancer bullshit went down; before the A.I. fragments started to go rogue; before the Meta turned against his team. Tucker doesn’t know what to do now. He’s surrounded by people who he knows are going to die- probably _soon_ , something is going to break _soon_ \- and he has the knowledge of how and when and _why_ but he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He has Wash again, but it isn’t _his_ Wash. The David Washington of this world does not know him yet. He’s a Freelancer Soldier, not the leader of the Blue Team, and Tucker’s chest twists to know that, for the near future, he’s going to have to be around a Wash that’s almost, but not quite, his soul mate. Maybe that’s why his words have been burning him.

Tucker is looking at his feet as he walks, stumbling randomly through the corridors, and he doesn’t notice the other person walking towards him until they slam into each other. Tucker stumbles backwards and he almost falls, if it weren’t for the other person who reaches out and wraps an arm around his middle to keep him upright. When Tucker looks up, he finds the the man he ran into is quite a bit taller than him and with hair so light blonde that it looks nearly white. The man gives him a small smile and apologizes, all while he helps Tucker find his balance again. If his head wasn’t already spinning from his previous conversation, Tucker would be a little bit creeped out by the closeness, but as it is he’s just quietly grateful.

“Sorry about that! I’m Agent North Dakota, but most of the folks around here just call me North. I see that Medical got you all patched up! I’m glad, you had a nasty looking wound when you came in.” North says, and Tucker is suddenly hit by a memory he has of Wash telling him about the Dakota twins of Project Freelancer; how they used to be the best fighting duo of the Project, until the A.I. came to play, and the sister began to grow jealous. Tucker looks up at North and he suddenly feels guilty; the knowledge he has of the downfall of this mans life weighs heavily on his mind. He manages to muster up a small smile and what he hopes is a sincere sounding, “Thank you.”

North hums as he looks around the hallway and then back at Tucker. “This place can be pretty confusing, do you need help getting around?”

“Uh, yeah, that would actually be pretty great,” Tucker says, ducking his head in embarrassment. North just smiles encouragingly at him and asks where he was headed. Before Tucker can answer, his stomach grumbles, loud enough for it to be audible to the both of them, and North blinks in surprise before breaking out in a laugh. Tucker can’t help but laughing along with him when he says, “I guess that means we’re headed to the mess hall.”

 

Tucker sits down at one of the cafeteria tables where the Freelancer soldiers are sitting, and for a second he can pretend that it’s normal. In that moment, he can almost hear Simmons griping to Grif about the amount of food Grif’s eating, or Caboose loudly telling Church all about the one day they had pudding cups in the cafeteria and how many he had eaten. Instinctively, he turns to his right to ask Wash if he remembers having to clean up all the empty cups from Caboose’s pudding raid, and how nervous the kitchen staff had been when they’d had to tell Caboose they’d finally run out of the snacks. The illusion breaks when Tucker turns to his right, and instead of seeing Wash looking back at him, exasperated, he finds Wash with his back turned to him, laughing at something that one of the other Freelancers- York?- said. The smile drops off of Tucker’s face, and he turns forward again. He finishes his meal in silence.

 

Over the next few days, Tucker meets the rest of the Freelancers. He flinches away from C.T. when he sees her in her armor, before remembering that the man at the temple who terrorized him was not her. He meets York, and the name taste bitter on his tongue when he remembers the details of his death, heard through the vine from Wash. He met North already, and he introduces him to South. Tucker feels the same guilt choking him around his throat that he did in the hallway with North. He sees Wyoming, and anger flares in his chest. In the future, this man will cause pain for him and his team. When Tucker greets him, he does it as cool and quick as he can. The next person he meets is Florida, who feels so familiar, but Tucker can’t put his finger on it. He feels like they’ve met before, but he doesn’t quite remember it. In a way, he reminds Tucker of Donut with his chipper personality, and Tucker finds he doesn’t really mind him.

Tucker sees Carolina, and it’s instinct for him to call out to her. She spins around, and takes off her helmet to raise an eyebrow at him, and Tucker can’t stop himself from saying, “I didn’t know you had red hair.”

Carolina furrows her eyebrows and looks like she wants to question him, but before she can, York chimes in with the line, “How could you not? She’s a natural born firecracker.”Her anger at that point turns entirely towards the other Freelancer, and Tucker bites his tongue so he won’t do anything stupid like that again.

The first time Tucker sees Maine, he splutters and jumps, moves as fast as he can around and through the Freelancers until there’s a few feet, soldiers, and tables in between the two of them. Tucker’s hand instinctively goes to his hip for his sword, but he still hasn’t gotten his armor back, and there’s nothing there for him to grab. He looks up again, paranoid, to see the eyes of everyone else in the room on him.

Tucker feels maybe just a little bit stupid. He knows that this man is not yet the monster that Tucker knows. At this point in time, he is still a soldier and an ally. As far as Tucker can see, he is still normal, as normal as a Freelancer can be, and there is not threat. Still. He tries his best to never be alone with the guy.

Agent Washington is another matter entirely. Ever since the first day and his first stunt, the Freelancers make it a point to not allow Tucker and Wash to be alone together. North, York, and Maine are the fiercest ones about this unspoken rule. They shove themselves between Tucker and Wash whenever Tucker tries to talk to him, and if there’s ever a time where it looks like they might be in a room together, one of three always follows along. Tucker isn’t so mad about the fact that he doesn’t get to be alone with Wash as he’s frustrated at the fact that they don’t trust him. Even in this time period, where this Wash is too young to be the one he loves, Tucker would still never do anything to hurt him.

 

It’s a week after he’s arrived that they finally allow Tucker back into his armor. He spends at least an hour trying to feel comfortable in it again, feeling like there’s something wrong and different about it now, even though he knows it’s the same. There are the same chinks and dents in it now as there was when he gave it over. He still has his sword, his knife, and his shotgun, although they aren’t all attached to his armor. One of the first things that the Project did was give him a small locker for his weapons, because, as they said, he wasn’t allowed to walk freely with them. Tucker doesn’t fight them, mostly because he doesn’t feel like it’s worth it.

He still wears his armor because it’s something familiar here. At least this makes sense when everything else doesn’t.

 

Tucker gets so much shit the first time the Freelancers see him in his armor. York practically chokes on his coffee and yells out, “Carolina, I didn’t know you had a little brother!” And from there it just spirals. Tucker sits down at the break table and takes it all in stride, grinning under his helmet despite the massive storm of shit he’s currently on the receiving end. The bickering, at least, feels natural. This is what he’s comfortable with. When the teasing turns targets towards another unlucky soul- Tucker thinks that Carolina has managed to turn the tables back on York- Tucker stands up and goes to make himself a cup of coffee. He pops the seal on his helmet and picks out one of the standard issue Project Freelancer mugs from the shelf and moves to fill the pitcher with water. Wash is standing to his left, and Tucker doesn’t even look up when he asks, “Do you want me to put some on for you, too?”

“No, thanks. I’m not a coffee drinker,” Washington answers, and Tucker nearly fumbles the pitcher in surprise. He saves it, though, juggling it between his hands before closing the top and sliding it back into its rightful place in the coffee maker contraption. When the pitcher is safe, he turns to look over at Wash, who’s staring back.

“That’s just… surprising is all,” Tucker says, trying to dig himself out of the hole he continues to dig. “I would’ve put money on it that you were an avid coffee drinker.” And he would’ve, honestly, because the Wash he knows has more coffee in his veins than blood. Back on Chorus, the dude fucking ran off coffee and fumes more often than not. Tucker was amazed the guy didn’t die in his sleep of a heart attack any given night.

The Wash of this timeline just shakes his head, his nose wrinkling up in what seems like disgusts. “I can’t stand the taste of it, I can only take one sip and then I’m done.” Tucker nods along as he measures out the grinds and sets up the machine. It’s still weird, just another one of the str differences between the time he came from and the one he’s join now. A part of him is anxious to just be done with this nonsense and to be back in the right time again, but a smaller, selfish part of him doesn’t want to leave behind a world where Wash is still alive. Even if it’s not technically _his_ Wash, it still makes Tucker’s heart flip to see him healthy, happy, laughing, and _alive_. Tucker almost never wants to leave this parallel past timeline.

Almost.

 

Tex shows up during training one day. Tucker catches one sight of her across the vast open arena and is immediately in flight mode, sprinting in the opposite direction and putting as many freelancers between himself and her as he can. His odd behavior gets ignored in favor of the confusion and curiosity that Tex brings, and the freelancers are so preoccupied with the newest arrival that Tucker is able to slip out of the training area and make a break for it.

The arrival of Tex brings up the question that Tucker has been anguishing over since he finally came to terms with the fact that he was actually sent back in time, and that this was really happening. Tucker knows that Tex marks the downfall of Project Freelancer. Her arrival is the first step of the upheaval process, and Tucker doesn’t know what to do. He wants to try and stop it- at all costs. He wants to save the lives of these people that he knew of only in stories, until now. He aches so bad to tell them all what he knows, to warn them and protect them from the pain that awaits all of them, but he is afraid of the consequences. If he starts to mess around in the past, then what does that mean in the future? Is he already condemned to live in an impossible time loop, or does he still have a chance to go back to the time he came from? Tucker doesn’t know the answer to any of this, but he’s afraid that he needs to figure it out soon. Whatever move he makes, it has to happen in the next few days or else it won’t even matter in the long run.

Tucker pops the latches on his helmet and leans against the wall of the hallway outside the training facility and just tries to breathe.

 

Later that night, after he strips himself of his armor and throws on some of the regulation civilian training shorts and a tank top, Tucker tries to sleep. He tries for about two minutes before he deems it a lost fucking cause, and decides if he’s going to be staying up all night again he might as well get a snack out of it. The hallways leading to the cafeteria are quiet and empty, and Tucker walks faster across the metal floor, his bare feet slapping against the metal floor.

He pushes open the door, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the lights flick on inside. As is, Tucker manages to flail his arms hard enough that he smacks himself into the door, effectively slamming it shut and making enough noise to wake the entire base up. That’s when a voice comes out of nowhere and shushes him.

It turns out the voice belongs to Agent Washington.

“Are you always so loud?” The soldier asks, his voice pitched lower than it usually is, and Tucker looks around for a bit before finding him standing behind the meal counter, fiddling with the hot water heater. He doesn’t even look up when he asks, “I’m making hot chocolate. Do you want one?”

Tucker is struck suddenly by a memory he has of a day back on Chorus, in the second box canyon. It was one of the first nights after Church and Carolina had left them, and Caboose still wasn’t sleeping, saying that he wouldn’t until Church came back to the base. Wash had gone steely faced and disappeared, and Tucker had been afraid for a half a second before Wash came back with a mug of hot chocolate and wrapped Caboose’s hands around it. The three of them sat up all night with him, drinking hot chocolate and telling stories until Caboose was relaxed enough to go to sleep. Tucker feels a smile on his face as he remembers. This is a piece of Wash that has stayed the same throughout the years, even if this isn’t _his_ Wash, it’s still so obviously _Wash_.

“Yeah, I’d love one,” Tucker answers, belatedly, but Wash just nods at him, filling the pitcher with more water. Tucker takes a deep breath and walks over to the counter near Wash, leaning against it and watching him fiddle with the packets of hot chocolate mix as he waits for the water to boil. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable, and it Tucker a second to realize that this is the first time they’ve actually been alone together since Tucker landed himself here, on this ship, with a bunch of freelancers and a number of years in the past. The water boils and begins to whistle, and Wash quickly shuts off the heat and pulls the pitcher off the burner. Tucker turns around to pull two mugs out of the cupboard, and Wash gives him a small smile as he holds his hand out for them.

Tucker hands him the first one. Their fingers brush, and in an instant, there is pain blooming across his chest and up, over his shoulder, down his arm. Tucker sucks in air and doubles over, the mug crashes to the ground as Wash goes stock still, clothing at his own chest and gritting his teeth. His chest is burning, right over his arm, but his arm feels like it’s on fire. It’s right over his scar, over his words, and if Tucker didn’t know any better he’d say his words are trying to burn themselves off of his skin. He shoves his hand up to his mouth and stuffs one of his knuckles between his teeth, trying not to scream.

Wash looks like he’s having the worse of it. He’s leaning heavily against the counter and he’s digging his fingers into the meat of his chest, right over his heart, and Tucker chokes on a ragged breath when he thinks about what this might mean.

The pain, although excruciating, doesn’t last very long. Wash slides to the floor, and Tucker follows a second later. They are both shaking and panting, and haven’t found the words to speak yet. At the end of everything, it’s Tucker that breaks the silence.

“ _Wash._ ” Is all he can say at first, his voice hoarse, and then after that, “What happened?” Wash turns his head to look at Tucker, and parts his lips as if to answer him, but then his eyes catch Tucker’s arm and they widen. He starts to push himself up, one hand coming up and reaching out as if to touch Tucker’s shoulder but stopping just before it. He croaks out, “Tucker, _look_.”

Tucker’s words are glowing. The line he carved between them months ago is gone, and his words are _glowing_. Tucker cranes his neck, turning his arm this way and that to try and get a better look at them before Wash gives an irritated huff and finally does grabber his arm. He scoots closer to Tucker, turning himself so he can read to words that are lit up like they were written on his skin with a sparkler.

“ _‘You be good. See you tomorrow. I love you.’_ ” Wash reads, before looking up at Tucker in confusion. Tucker snatches his arm back, stretching to read the words himself because, no, what the _fuck_ , they can’t just _change-_

Wash looks insulted for about a half of a second before he looks like he just remembered something. Immediately, his hands go to the hem of his shirt and he pulls it over his head as quick as he can, tossing it to the side. Tucker looks up and his jaw drops.

Wash’s chest is glowing, too. Right over his heart, Tucker can see the ink of his soul words flowing freely, and shining as bright as a new born star. Tucker reaches forward before he can think better of it, flattening his palms over Wash’s chest and framing his words. Tucker reads, “ _‘Don’t worry, I will never leave you.’_ ”

Above him, Tucker hears Wash suck in a harsh breath. He looks up and finds he has to blink past the tears growing in his eyes. Tucker doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what these means, but- God, he hopes-

Tucker’s breath catches in his throat and Wash is reaching out. Tucker doesn’t even think, he just grabs the outstretched hand on holds on for dear life.

 

That night, Tucker tells Wash _everything_. Slowly, as everything comes out, the glow on their soul marks fades. Wash listens quietly and Tucker struggles through, his breath hitching and heaving. At the end of it all, Wash gives him a steely, brave faced look, and he’s hit all at once of an image of this same man, years older, always putting on the same mask. Somethings just never change.

But some things do.

 

It seems like they’re late night confessional has broken a tension between the freelancers and Tucker, even though none of them know about what happened. There aren’t anymore glances his way, or people shoving themselves between him and Wash, and Tucker is so thrown off by this change, along with the whole ordeal in the cafeteria, that he doesn’t notice that it’s just him and North still left in the break room.

North has a crossword puzzle laid out in front of him and Tucker is holding on to a cold cup of coffee.

“You know, you look at him the same way York looks at Carolina when he thinks no one’s watching.” North says, quiet, penciling in the answer for number thirty-two across.

Tucker’s neck snaps up. “What?”

North huffs and doesn’t even look up. “You know who I’m talking about. Wash. We can all see it.”

Tucker doesn’t say anything, but his cheeks are burning scarlet. North laughs at him.

 

Eventually, all things will come to an end. Tucker’s time on the Mother of Invention was always limited. He has known that since the beginning. The fact doesn’t stop him from being nervous, though. He hasn’t told anyone else anything about the future of Project Freelancer, and what is going to happen to all of the soldiers. No one but Wash knows about the ticking time bomb that the Project is about to become. Tucker doesn’t know if he did the right thing or not, but it’s too late to question it all now.

In the end, Agent Wyoming is the one to send him back. After all, it was his mechanic that pulled Tucker into the past in the first place - it’s only logical that Wyoming would be the one to send him back. Tucker never did manage to make good terms with the man, but all in all he isn’t too disappointed about it. The only thing he has time to feel before the floor drops out form under him is nervous.

 

Tucker wakes up this time with a headache and and a cramp in his neck. When he sits up and looks around, he can see that he’s in the medical bay in the belly of the Rebel camp on Chorus and for a second, his stomach drops. It all looks the same as he left it. Did his trip to the past mean nothing? Did he do the wrong thing entirely?

Tucker looks instinctively down at his arm, feeling like if one thing will answer his question it will be his soul mark, but his armor is still on and his view is blocked. He moves to start popping the seals and latches of the gear, wanting to peel it off as fast as he can, when he hears someone banging through the door of Medical.

Tucker looks up and freezes. His heart jumps from his chest to throat, and his first thought is _please, don’t do this to me again._

Wash, _his_ Wash, is standing there in the doorway. His armor is unmistakeable - standard issue gray, pipelined with that bright ass yellow - but when he unlocks the seals on his helmet and shoves it off, Tucker knows.

He’s out of the bed and running before he can even think. Wash is ready for him, arms already open, and Tucker all but throws himself at Wash. They knock their foreheads together at first, and Tucker giggles, bright and unexpected, before he moves to shove his face in the curve of Wash’s neck. He feels like he could wrap his arms around Wash twice by sheer force of will, and he’s just so damn _relieved_.

Wash is whispering in his ear, and at first it’s nothing to Tucker, but then he can hear it, hear the mantra, “ _it’s okay, i’m okay, i’m home, i won’t leave you, we’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay, i love you, we’re home-“_

Tucker’s breath hitches and he hiccups as he pulls back and stands up a little straighter, ducking his head down and gently bumping his nose up against Wash’s, closing his eyes and grinning, so damn hard. Wash is warm and solid and _alive_ and Tucker is so, so _happy._


End file.
